A Highlander for Christmas (54 page)

She put a gentle finger on his lips. “No one runs me ragged except myself,” she said firmly.

“You’re not sleeping half enough.”

“I want you to be proud of me.”

“Sweet heavens protect us, I couldn’t be prouder or I’d explode. Nor, I expect, could that impossible father of yours.” Jared glared down at her. “I don’t want you collapsing at our wedding.”

Maggie’s li
ps
curved in a wicked smile that made his heart skip a beat. “That would give them something to talk about, wouldn’t it? ‘Criminal’s daughter overcome by honorable offer.’”

“He’s no criminal. Now he’s a hero.” Jared’s fingers slid into her hair. “You’re certain you’re feeling better?”

She nodded, her head slanted against his shoulder. “Have you noticed how beautifully everything has been kept? Someone has been taking very good care of Lochmohr House for you, my love.”

He’d noticed, of course. He should have realized that the fact wouldn’t escape her keen eye either:

“I think they knew you’d change your mind and return. I think they want to show you how much they need you here.”

By the time they made their way down the great turnpike stair, her color had returned. As Jared pushed open the front door he caught the scent of pipe smoke.

A dozen hampers lined the stone steps.

A folded pile of tartans, fresh from the process of waulking.

A jar of preserves wrapped in red ribbons.

A carved walking stick of preserved bog wood.

A crate of home-smoked salmon from the loch.

Welcome back
, it all meant.

Jared touched one of the plaids and nearly stumbled beneath a wave of strong, warming emotions.

An old man sat on the stone bench near the drive, puffing at a homemade pipe. His craggy features curved in a smile as he stared at Jared and Maggie. He came slowly to his feet and said a phrase of soft Gaelic.

“Welcome home, MacNeill of Lochmohr.”

Gravely Jared thanked him for the wish.

“She is the one you will marry?”

“As God will have it.”

“A fine choice. She will bring the light to this grand house again and the sound of laughter.” William Campbell’s keen eyes narrowed. “I think she will bring the necklace home too, even after all these long years.”

Jared went very still. The memory of the tarnished stones hidden in the abbey’s wine cellar teased his mind.

“You mind well that long ago another MacNeill rode from this loch.” He used the soft tones of a man recounting a beloved tale passed down from mouth to mouth. “He’d gathered the riches of a county, hoping to raise French aid for troops against a coming English attack.”

The sense of history weighed on Jared’s shoulders.

The pain of an old betrayal.

The old man puffed slowly on his pipe. “But it might have been just a story. Every generation makes its own legends. Clear it is that you two will make your share.” His aged body stood strong and tall in the wind. “I’ll be off to the village now. A thousand questions they’ll have about the laird and his fine wife to be.” Then Campbell frowned and slowly held out his hand to Jared.

Both men knew the significance of the gesture.

Both men remembered their meeting months before in the village.

Jared had been gaunt and mute, newly returned from the hells of his jungle captivity. He had been unable to bear any touch when the MacNeill gift lay new upon him. He had rejected the handshake then.

He would not do so now.

Without a word he reached out and gripped the old fingers tightly. A granite wave of affection surged through him in response.

Welcome home, MacNeill of Lochmohr. These old stones have waited for you.

Snow danced through the air, dotting Maggie’s hair and cheeks. As the old man wound his way back down the hill, Jared caught her tight, filled with immeasurable peace. It was only then that he sensed a difference. A new, shimmering light played through her.

The glow of a different consciousness wrapped around her.

Gently his hand fell, opening over her waist.

Again it came, subtle and elusive. Something burned at Jared’s eyes as he realized what he was touching.

The miracle of a new life.

The next MacNeill, fragile cells already stirring beneath his hand. Still too soon for any medical tests, but not too soon for the gentle probe of Jared’s gift. He would tell her soon, but not yet.

Not until they were in a private spot, where he could show her all the joy her gift had brought him.

He took her hand. Together they walked beneath the towering beeches down toward the sea. Happiness left no room for words as the snow fell, soft and silent and very beautiful.

“She’s beautiful. I told you she would be beautiful.” Faith Kincade blinked back tears as she watched Maggie enter the church, clad in a dress of antique Battenburg lace and a veil of seed pearls.

“Of course she’s beautiful. She’s madly in love,” Chessa Kincade whispered, her own voice suspiciously watery. “With a man like that, who could blame her?”

Organ music swelled, and Faith made a muffled sound, caught between laughter and tears. “I absolutely swore I wouldn’t cry.”

Chessa linked their arms, “It’s a wedding. You’re entitled to a few tears.”

Neither spoke as Maggie moved past, pale but radiant on the arm of her beaming father, who looked surprisingly hale for a man who had come back from death.

Only the family and the authorities knew the real story. Everyone else had been told the carefully prepared tale of how Daniel Kincade had plunged from the sky and lain unconscious for months in a remote jungle village until a search team stumbled on him only weeks before.

The theft charges had been dropped. Government sources explained the whole business was a grave mistake. He had protected the jewels and brought them back safely. Now they were calling Daniel Kincade a hero instead.

As the music swelled, Faith watched the man in black velvet and splendid MacNeill plaid who waited for Maggie at the altar. His joy shimmered, nearly tangible. No one could have smiled harder than Ishmael Harris Teague, his best man.

In that crowded church, Faith felt the hand of fate at work, almost as if Jared and Maggie had been pulled here through twisting paths over long, circuitous years of trouble and pain.

Beyond the front steps came muffled curses.

Faith hid a smile. Another reporter being thrown out, no doubt. That would make the sixth one today.

Nicholas Draycott possessed an admirable security force. Currently, they circled the church, taking silent pleasure in ejecting any and all reporters who would have marred the day’s joy.

The media had had a field day with the news of Daniel Kincade’s return. His recognition as a hero only stirred the furor about the abbey’s upcoming exhibition. Even now the display cases gleamed, filled with exquisite treasures of Maggie’s creation. Daniel had walked through the night before, reduced to tears. “She’s better than I ever was. Do you see the detail on that platinum and the faceting on those diamonds?” he’d demanded, to anyone within hearing range. He had been proudest of all of the beautiful platinum and Siberian diamond ring she had designed for her own wedding.

Faith knew the pleasure he took in giving away his daughter to a man he admired completely. She also suspected that Daniel was enjoying the media’s frenzied attention. She was only surprised that Maggie seemed to accept the attention, too.

Having a man like Jared MacNeill nearby for protection made the prospect a great deal easier to face.

As the radiant bride joined her groom at the altar, Faith swallowed a sob and dug in her beaded bag for a handkerchief.

By then, Chessa was crying nearly as hard as she was.

~ ~ ~

They stopped on the high slope above the sea. Maggie was wrapped in an old family tartan, warmed by Jared’s hand at her shoulder. She had dreamed once, caught by low voices and the drum of hoof beats. But the dreams were peaceful now. They carried only fragments of memory and yearning and a sense of coming home.

She smiled when Jared’s hand slid beneath the tartan and curved over her waist. “Are we close yet?”

“Almost there.
”

“Ummm.” She turned her face up for a kiss, sighing when she felt his lips touch hers. “I’m glad you decided to drive north. We could have stayed at the Abbey, but this feels … right somehow.
Besides, I want my first Christmas night with you here at Lochmohr. Though I
am
going to miss Max.”

“That dog will be spoiled beyond all recognition by the time we get back,” Jared said gruffly. “Marston may demand to keep him.”

“You wouldn’t
let
him,” Maggie said, sounding startled.

“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m getting used to having puppy fur all over me.”

A light was burning at the front door as they walked up the gravel drive. Through the bright windows Jared saw the gleam of a Christmas tree.

Packages were stacked on the front steps, a silent welcome to the laird and his wife.

Off through the woods he saw a flash of color. His old friend, William Campbell, raised one hand in greeting, then walked back up the road.
No intrusions on the laird and his new wife tonight
, Jared thought.

And the MacNeill of Lochmohr was relieved for it. There had been nothing but distractions and work in the days before the wedding. In fact his patience had been sorely tried.

Now that they were here, all he meant to do was gather Maggie up and have his reckless way with her on every flat surface of the castle. They would start with the fur rug before the Christmas tree, he decided. It would be a fine beginning.

At the threshold he swept her up into his arms, seeing color fill her face. When their hands met, he felt the silver rush of her thoughts and the hot yearning race through her blood. “Oh, I most certainly will remember
that
, my heart. I’ll have you that way and a dozen more tonight. And now, my beautiful, maddening and most wonderful wife…”

Lights gleamed from a dozen windows as he pinned Maggie against the wall, swept off her coat and drank in the sound of her husky sigh. Fabric rustled. Lace parted and fell.

Then only skin. Only racing nerves and heat too long denied.

She met his need with equal fire and restless fingers when he set her down before the fire, their clothes scattered and forgotten.

Her body rose to meet him. Her fingers drove into his hair. Wherever their skin touched, desire burned him. And Jared read her own wild need and held her, claimed her, possessed her completely.

The tartans seemed to dance in the firelight. Old voices murmured and then fell away.

In long, driving strokes Jared filled his wife, delighting in the broken sounds of her pleasure and the dazed look as she took his length, trapped against the warm fur.

He would wear her marks on his back by morning, the Scotsman thought with primitive pride. And she would wear a few of his too.

Home
, he thought dimly. Though he had never expected to find it or live long enough to enjoy it.

Home
, she thought, as the pleasure snapped her up and spun her inside out and made her cry out his name raggedly as she convulsed around him
. Wherever you are, my love.

There might have been soft laughter along the shadowed stairs. There might have been the sound of horses and boots and warm greetings in old Gaelic.

Neither Jared nor Maggie heard.

In the dancing firelight her eyes were hot with welcome and need. Jared muttered darkly in Gaelic and then took her all the way home beneath him while snow danced over the high hills and Christmas came home to Lochmohr House at last.